


The Disappearance of Wisteria Lodge

by maypoison



Series: The Network [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Detectives, Eventual Romance, Homeless Network, Hurt/Comfort, Modern Setting, Multi, Pregnancy, Reader Insert, Slow Build, The Network - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-06-16 03:26:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15427995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maypoison/pseuds/maypoison
Summary: Based on the original story by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, 'The Adventure of Wisteria Lodge'.Sherlock Holmes receives a message from a well known University professor, who believes that his friend and their home has mysteriously disappeared.





	The Disappearance of Wisteria Lodge

“My God. That's horrendous.” John Watson leans back into the sofa with a deep exhale. He looks genuinely shocked and disgusted, and you can’t blame him.

“I know, it was really awful.” You agree, before taking a quick sip of your tea.

The flat was freezing, and currently only being warmed by the small fire place in the living room. It made being in the house in general awful, unless you were crowding your ice cold hands around a cup of something extremely hot. Sherlock didn’t seem to mind the cold in the slightest, but you assumed John did, as hadn’t even taken off his coat when he had arrived.

“Did you tell his friend what happened, then? Was it Winston?” John asks, and you nod with a small smile.

“Yeah, we found him. He gave his statement to the police, identified Sailor and then was gone by the morning. I don't blame him. I wouldn't want to have stayed around there either. Not after everything that happened.”

“You didn’t even see him go?”

“Oh of course, he gave me this as a thank you …”

You reach into your jeans pocket, and carefully pull out the large round coin that you had been gifted by the homeless man.

“What it is?” John asks, spinning the object in his hands, before he holds it underneath a lamp at the end of the sofa, no doubt attempting to see it better, than in the dull light. 221B was starting to feel like an abandoned building.   

“An old coin he had with him for good luck. He’s carved on it, that’s why you can barely see the date or -”

“An American dollar coin, circa 1921.” A monotone voice interrupts from the hallway, and John nods, seemingly impressed, and not at all surprised by Sherlock's sudden deduction.

“Where do you think he got that?” The Doctor asks, handing it back over to you.

“Dunno. But I wouldn’t be surprised if he had been to America at some point in his life and picked it up on his travels.”

“Do you really think he was 93 years old?” Sherlock asks, before yawning, and walking into the kitchen

Strangely, the Detective had been in bed for longer than usual. After your escapades in Norwood, you had both been exhausted, and come straight back to London in the early hours rather than find a hotel room. You hadn’t slept, but Sherlock had gone straight to bed and only just emerged from his dark room.

“He didn’t have any teeth?” You suggest with a shrug, but you know it was a weak argument for someone being nearly 100 years old.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, before he huffs and pulling his sheet closer around himself, moves over to the much used coffee machine. Well, it was used often by you, ergo; Sherlock usually knew that you would keep in stocked for when he suddenly had an urge for caffeine.

You noticed with some relief that Sherlock was actually wearing some pyjama trousers underneath the sheet, and turned to see John also look comically relieved when he also notices this. You both laugh at your expressions, before you take another sip of your still warm and sweet tea.

“So, how is Mary?” You ask after a moment, and John smiles and nods.

“Yeah she’s good. Although, a little bit excited to get the pregnancy part over with. Not long now to go now.”

“Nervous?” You ask.

You didn’t really know anything about children, babies or pregnancy, but knew enough about John to see that the man appeared a little bit, well scared.

“Terrified.” He admits, and your expression softens at your friends genuine worry.

“Well that’s understandable. This is kinda huge.”

“Any advice?”

You freeze for a moment, wondering if the Doctor was suddenly addressing Sherlock instead of you. His kind gaze does not leave your face however, so you smile, incredulous.

“You're asking me for advice about having a kid?”

John smirks. “About having a daughter.”

“Oh, erm …” You frown for a moment, but it only takes a few seconds for you to think of something to say. “Don’t force pink on her all the time, let her play with whatever toys she wants, keep her away from sugar as long as possible and … get her a pet.”

You say all of this without barely a breath in between and John looks impressed, whereas Sherlock who had just walked into the living room, looks curious.

“A pet?” John asks, and you note he sounds to be not very keen on the idea.

“Yeah, apparently having a pet is good for kids. Teach them how to be gentle, gives them companionship. Stuff like that.” You shrug. “It doesn’t have to be a dog or anything, maybe a fish?”

“It’ll die within two days in our house.” John replies seriously, and you chuckle,

“Well that’s the other thing,” You continue with a sigh “In a kinda morbid way it teaches them about death early on.”

“My God, you really have been spending too much time with Sherlock.”

You laugh loudly then, but John just looks between you and Sherlock with a comical expression that says ‘what have I done’.

“She’s right you know. The PHC did an intensive study on -”

“Yeah ok got it, thanks.” John dismisses Sherlock, no doubt worrying that he was going to get a word by word description of this ‘intensive study’ “Pet, not too much pink and ease off the sugar.”

You nod, seemingly satisfied before getting up to put away your now empty cup.

“How many days now?” You ask over your shoulder on the way to the now slightly cleaner kitchen. Mrs Hudson had been busy whilst you and Sherlock had been away.

“Anytime now really.”

“Three.”

You frown over at Sherlock, who appeared still to be only just waking up “Three?” You ask, and the detective nods. “Is that your guess Sherlock?”

“I never guess.” The man replies, and he sounds so childishly stubborn that you have to bite your lip to hold back your laughter.

“You just did. You've got no way to be sure ...” You muse, and your friend turns to glare at you.

“Three days.” Sherlock says once again, and you sigh with resignation.

“Ok fine,” You pause for a moment, watching the detective closely just to try and see if he knew something you didn’t. “Two days.”

“What are you both on about?” John asks, watching your interaction closely from his spot at the living room table.

Sherlock squints at you, and you squint back, trying to keep your face impassive.

“Deal.” Sherlock replies suddenly, and you smile, both having ignored John’s questioning.

“What about you John?” You ask, turning to make yourself another cup of tea. "When do you think the baby will arrive?" 

“I’m hoping Sherlock’s right.”

“What, why?!” You exclaim, whilst Sherlock just looks smug to have the Doctor on his side.

“Because that gives me an entire extra day to try and avoid freaking out about the whole thing.”

“You’ll  be great John.” You reply earnestly, and even Sherlock’s gaze soften as he nods at his friend, agreeing with you.

“Statistically -”

“Hush.” You admonish your friend before he can say something that gives John the excuse to give him a black eye. You hand Sherlock a pack of biscuits, before moving to sit back at the table.

Suddenly, footsteps sound of the stairwell, followed by a cheerful whistle. 

“Ah Mrs Hudson." Sherlock exclaims, before popping half a biscuit into his wide mouth. "We were just all taking turns to guess when Mary will go into labour.”

“Wait!” You interrupt as Mrs Hudson enters the room “Go into labour, or have the baby? That could be two different days.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, before turning back to his land lady.

“Six days.” The woman says without missing a beat, and Sherlock turns to look at you with a perplexed expression.

“That was quick Mrs Hudson.” You reply with a chuckle, and even John looks confused.

“Well my friend Bethany, oh and this was years ago now -”

Suddenly, the newly installed doorbell begins to ring mercifully, and you all let out a sigh of relief. Sherlock jumps up, you assume to get dressed, as Mrs Hudson moves to answer the door.

“Saved by the bell …” Sherlock mumbles as he walks away, and you laugh quietly, only to stop, and wonder where that sudden sense of humour had some from. 

Surely Sherlock wouldn't start referencing television and movies now? 

“Client?” John asks, pulling your attention back into the living room.

“Probably. We’ve been pretty quiet over Christmas but Sherlock said it would pick up soon.” You reply with a shrug.

“Well I think I’m going to stay for this one. At least to hear the first bit,” John adds, obviously referring to the clients reasons for coming. "This was always the most interesting part."

"Not solving the case?"

"Nah. I like to be around when it all starts."

“Fair enough.” You agree with a smile, just as a fully dressed Sherlock renters the room, buttoning up his jacket. He opens his mouth to say something, but you interrupt him quickly, holding up a hand to halt his words. “If you say ‘The game is on!’ one more time I swear to God I’m going to break the coffee machine.”

Sherlock just opens and closes his mouth, obviously unsure of what to say in response to your little outburst. Suddenly, John breaks out into a full belly laugh, and you can only hold your amusement in for another few seconds before you join him.

“I wasn’t going to say it.” Sherlock pouts once again, only causing you and John to laugh even more.

The Detective rolls his eyes at you both, before moving to the window; no doubt to try and see who if anyone was downstairs. Mrs Hudson comes up the stair case wearing a radiant smile, and you know then that this defiantly wasn’t a client.

“Hello Molly!” John greets, genuinely surprised and pleased to see the young pathologist.

“Hello” Molly greets with a shy smile.

Sherlock turns to smile at her quickly, before resuming his stoic glaring out of the window onto the street. You and John look over to him, and have to stifle your laughter once again.

“Did I miss something?” Molly asks, smiling herself.

You open your mouth to respond, but Sherlock cuts you off before you can answer your friend.

“No.”

 “Fair enough” Molly says lightly, appearing unperturbed by the childish actions at Baker Street, “I was actually looking for …”

On hearing your name, you head shoots up, and you frown.

“Me?”

“We’ve had another incident at the lab, I’ve just got a message about it this morning.” Molly sighs, before looking over at you with an expression of worry. “You wouldn’t be able to come and help with the clear up would you? I'll make sure you get some money for the trouble from my boss.”

“Of course I don't mind! That is …” You look over to Sherlock, who just nods.

“Of course, we have no current cases to work on.” The Detective agrees, before nodding over towards his friend sat next to you at the table. “John can assist me if anyone comes.”

“Can he?” The man asks sarcastically as you stand to get your coat.

“I’ll be back soon Sherlock.”

You wait for the inevitable comments along the lines of ‘you can’t know that’ or ‘that’s dependant on …’ but it doesn’t come. Sherlock just nods once again, before moving over towards the fire place. You shrug at Molly, who hides her smile in her huge knitted scarf.

“See you ladies tonight?” John says, and it’s more a question than a statement.

“Sure.”

“Bye John”

You and Molly silently walk down onto Baker Street, and stand for a moment outside waiting for a taxi to come by. You could walk, but it was absolutely freezing in London, and you both silently agreed that was probably a stupid idea.

“New coat?” Molly asks casually, eyeing the new garment with interest. Clearly she loved it as much as you did.

“Yeah, it was a Christmas present apparently.”

“Apparently? You sound like you’re not sure about that.” Molly replies with a smile.

“Well, I got it, then was told it was a gift and I didn’t need to return it, and then Mycroft said ‘consider it a Yuletide gift’” You laugh and shake your head, half amused by your own Mycroft impression and partly amused that the man had even said ‘Yuletide’.

He was like a villain from a Victorian horror novel. 

“Wait, Mycroft?” Molly asks, just as you flag down a taxi. “As in, Mycroft Holmes? Sherlock’s big brother?”

You nod as you climb into the taxi, and tell the man where you wanted to go. As he drives off, you notice Molly was still looking at you with a mixture of shock and awe.

“What?” You ask simply, feeling quite awkward under your friends stare.

“Mycroft Holmes,  _the_ Mycroft Holmes bought you that coat?” You nod, and Molly scoffs, before suddenly her eyes widen “It must have cost a fortune …”

“Nope, don’t do that.” You plead, interrupting the woman “I don’t want to think about how much it’s worth, or I’ll freak out, and probably never wear it again.”

Molly laughs, before looking at the striped red and orange jumper you were wearing under your huge grey coat. “Nice jumper.” The woman says with a knowing smile.

“Thanks, a friend gave it to me” You reply, playing along “She said she’d never worn it, and thought it would suit me.”

“Doesn’t look like it.” Molly agrees, trying not to laugh “It’s -”

Suddenly the woman giggles, and her laughter sparks your own. You shake your head as the taxi pulls up alongside St Barts, and you climb out, still laughing.

“Seriously though, thank you for those clothes.” You say earnestly as you walk into the building. “It was very kind of you, and I really do like them.”

“It’s no problem.” Molly replies quietly, “I wasn’t wearing them.”

“No, seriously Molly,” You stop the woman just outside her lab and office “I mean it. I really needed them, and you didn’t have to. So, thanks.”

Molly blushes, before swinging open the door. “Brace yourself, they told me it was an absolute mess.”

The lab itself looks relatively untouched, but you, thanks to working with Sherlock for so long, can tell that someone had been in here, and they were looking for something specific.

“There …” You point over to a chair on its side “That’s been knocked over by someone. See the ways it's on his side? Must have been quit the bit of force on it.”

“Could’ve been cleaning staff?” Molly suggest, walking deeper into the room with a frown, obviously worried about what else she’d fine. 

You shake your head “It’s not the chair that's the interesting bit, it’s what it’s next to it.” You walk over, and slowly move the chair upright and push it under the desk. “Someone tried to open this drawer,” You point to the long drawer next to the chair “They knocked over the chair as they pulled back, and then left it, probably because they were worried that someone had heard them.”

“Okay …” Molly says slowly, and you internally rejoice that she was talking your deductions seriously.

“A cleaner would have put the chair back. Whoever it was, was in a hurry. Cleaning staff also wouldn’t bother trying to get in this drawer anyway; it’s only the smaller autopsy instruments.”

“But the bigger ones aren’t locked away.” Molly adds, beginning to sound confused.

“Why not?” You ask, and the woman shrugs.

“No point. They are too big or bulky to sneak out, plus they all have some sort of computer chip in them so we can trace them.”

“Like pets?” You ask, and Molly nods with a smile. “They weren’t looking for weapons or anything like that Molly; they were looking for something to help open that door …”

Molly follows your pointed finger over to the record room. The door was open just slightly, and your friend sighs.

“The maintenance staff must have come in, saw that, and called it in. No one’s allowed in there except me and my boss, and we have the only keys.”

“Well, that would explain why -” You trail off from your investigation of the broken lock, and look at the woman with an amused expression. “I’ve been in here before. When I was first working with Sherlock, I helped you clean everything up.”

Molly actually looks embarrassed for a moment “Yeah, well that’s different.”

“How?”

“I trust you.”

You smile before you can stop yourself, and then watch as Molly moves to slowly push open the door and expose the mess within.  

“Holy …”

The rest of your sentence trails off as you survey the absolute chaos. It was the room in which the records were kept from the autopsies, as well as personal information about doctors, lab workers, guests and other things. It was full of important documents. Well, you correct internally, was full of important documents. Now it was full of …

“Shit.” Molly sighs, and you pull a face. You had never even heard your friend swear before. “This is worse than I’d thought it would be.”

Suddenly, Molly’s office phone starts ringing in the background, and she looks torn for a moment.

“Go on,” You reply, shooing the woman away “I’ve got this.”

“Thank you!” The woman calls, as she runs to answer the phone.

“No problem.” You reply, walking deeper into the room and trying desperately to avoid standing on anything.

* * *

Molly comes back into the room to help you half an hour later, claiming that she had an autopsy at 3pm, and you would have to be long gone by then.

“Okay.” You agree, standing to put away some files you had sorted. “Why didn’t your boss call the police about this? It's clearly a break-in. You'd think he'd be concerned.”

“Didn’t report it last time either.” Molly replies, walking over to a shelf to place down some files “Nothing was stolen, and only the lock was damaged. He claims that the police have more important things to worry about than just some random prank.”

“You think this was a prank?” You ask with a raised eyebrow, and Molly shakes her head.

“Of course it wasn’t, but he’s an idiot.” You laugh, and Molly looks over to you “What?”

“I’ve never really heard you talk like this before, it’s awesome.” You smile at your friend. “You should swear and call people idiots more often.”

“Bring Sherlock next time, and I just well might.”

You both laugh then, before you are suddenly distracted by something sitting on the floor in front of you, buried slightly under a mess of papers. You slowly and with shaking hands, move to hide it in your pocket, but Molly notices you're action.

“What was that?” She asks, looking over towards you from where she was stood next to a shelf.

“What?” You ask, feigning ignorance “Nothing.”

Molly nods, apparently pleased with that comment, but your heart begins racing.

That plectrum had belonged to Bill, you would recognise it anywhere. The question was, what the hell was it doing here?

* * *

“I think this is going to take forever …” Molly muses, throwing yet another pile of paper onto a shelf in the overflowing room.

“Hmm?”

You don’t look up from your task, but can suddenly sense your friend looking at you closely.

“Are you all right?” The woman asks “You seem distracted.”

Your head snaps up then, and you try to plant a realistic looking smile on your face. “Sorry, just tired I guess.” You murmur, before moving onto another file. Nothing was missing so far, but you thought you had better keep on searching, just in case.  

“Oh god I’m so sorry! I forgot you and Sherlock had been working yesterday out of town. You must be exhausted.” Molly replies kindly, moving towards you where you were sat on the floor.

As if to prove her point you yawn, but manage to shake your head as you do, trying to disagree with her concern. “I didn’t get much sleep, but I’ll manage.”

“No it’s okay. You head home; we can finish everything in the morning. That is -”

“Of course I’ll help tomorrow.” You interrupt with a smile, before moving to stand up and stretch your aching and stiff limbs. "This will bug me if I don't figure out what's missing."

“Thank you.”

Molly sighs, before looking around the room once more. It was cleaner, but barely. Whoever had broken in had literally taken every single piece of paper and moved it, thrown it or in some cases, even ripped it slightly. Both of you were bemused as to why. “I think I owe you a drink.”

You smile, pulling on your coat. “Just doing my job Molly. I’ll see you later.”

“Wait …”

You turn to gaze at the woman, one eyebrow rising at her flushed and worried expression.

“What?”

“I meant to ask, how are things? With you and Sherlock?”

You frown then, trying to resist the urge to fold your arms. That was a defensive position, and despite Molly not really being a detective, even she would be able to see that.

“What do you mean?” You ask, and Molly looks even more flustered for a second.

“Well, he’s not exactly the easiest person to get along with, and you live with him.”

“Everything’s fine Molly,” You reply easily, before smiling at your friend. “I’ll see you later.”

“Ok. See you later.”

* * *

“Wiggins?”

You hadn’t been under The Arches for nearly a month. Anytime you had needed the assistance of someone in The Network you had just sent a quick text, and then it was problem solved. For some reason however, you thought that this required a little bit of a personal touch.

“Well well, if it isn’t little Miss Baker Street.”

Rolling your eyes, you walk up to your companion who was leaning against a concrete pillar, trying and failing to look discrete. “Please tell me that’s not my new nickname.”

“I could, but then I’d be lying.”

“Did you get that photograph?” You ask, and Wiggins begins rummaging in his pockets. You remind yourself not to tell Sherlock how his evidence had been manhandled.

“Yep, here it is.” Wiggins hands you the small polaroid, and you quickly and carefully, stash it in your bag. “Matthew and Spike had to literally climb mountains to get that. Hope Mr Holmes appreciates all their effort.”

“Literally …” You scoff, but your smile doesn’t really reach your eyes, and amazingly, Wiggins seems to notice.

“You alright?”

“Yes.” You reply quickly, and rather harshly. “Why does everyone keep asking me that?!”

“Sorry.”

“No, I'm sorry Wiggins.” You sigh once again, rubbing your eyes. Clearly you were more tired than you thought you were. "I didn't mean to snap at you." 

“Stressed? You know if leading The Network is too much work -”

“Shut it.” You laugh really then, and Wiggins tries to stifle his own amusement. Suddenly, your hand comes to rest on the plectrum in your pocket, and you decide that enough was enough. You were going to find out what was going on.

“Wiggins, what happened to all of Bill’s things?”

“What things?”

“After he … died, what happened to all his stuff?”

“Erm …” The man frowns into the distance then, and you’re glad that he didn’t pause to comment on your reluctance to say the word ‘died’ “Well Mrs T and most of your lot got given a box of stuff by the police, but it was mostly photos and money and things. I don't know about any of his big stuff, like sleeping bags and whatnot.”

“What? They didn't tell me about that.”

Wiggins just continues speaking, obviously not having heard your comment. “His clothes and random stuff he had on him got handed over to the cops and then I recon they got burned or given away or something.”

“Wait," You stop the man, realising what he had said before. "He had money on him?”

“Oh yeah, coppers handed your group a couple of hundred quid. Said it was on him when he died.”

“No, no that can’t be right.” Your heart begins pounding, and you shake your head. Wiggins looks genuinely concerned, and moves forward as if to support you.

“What?”

“I’ll see you later Wiggins.” Is all you manage to say in response before you turn, and race back to Baker Street, ignoring the concerned calls of your friend in the distance.

If Bill hadn’t been killed for that money, you think as you run across a busy London road, then why was he attacked? And more to the point, how was his plectrum at Barts? You had a million questions racing in your head, but for some reason, you didn’t want to talk to Sherlock about it. Something was going on in The Network, and you were determined to find out the truth.

* * *

“Problem?”

“Jesus Christ!” You clutch your hand over your chest, turning for a moment from you exploration of your room. It wasn't a complete mess, you'd made some random little piles, but you still couldn’t find what you were looking for. “Don’t do that.”

“We have a client.” Sherlock replies in his deep monotone, and you notice that the detective was trying desperately not to make a comment on the mess before him.

“We? I thought John was helping you.”

“He was, now you are.”

“Fine.” You sigh, and walk towards Sherlock who was stood resting on your doorway.

You close the door and begin to walk down the stairs to the living room, noticing all the while that Sherlock was frowning at you.

“Sherlock, do you know what happened to that report? The one about my friend Bill?”

“Lestrade picked it up last time he was here.” The detective says simply as he moves to sit at the table.

There was no client present in the flat, so that must mean you had a Skype call, and you were definitely not in the mood.

“Great.”

Sherlock pauses as he moves to pull his computer towards himself, appearing slightly confused as to your sudden and very out of character change in mood. “If there’s a problem -”

“No, no problem.” You interrupt with a wave of the hand, and sit down next to the detective. “So, who’s the client?”

Sherlock frowns, but still clicks a button on his laptop, obviously either answering or calling his new client.

"A professor from Edinburgh."

You wait a few moments for Sherlock to continue, but when he remains silent, you scoff.

"That can't be it. You probably know his shoe size, what his favourite food is ..."

Sherlock opens his mouth to retort, but before he can speak, a flustered and plump face appears on screen. You quickly realise that the man was on a train, and wonder if the reason for the impromptu call was because he was currently travelling to London. Apparently, there had been a problem with some travel services, such as the trains, recently. You had read that aloud to Sherlock as you browsed the paper, but he had simply said 'boring' and carried on eating his toast. 

"Professor Eccles I assume." Sherlock greets in his deep monotone, and the man on the laptop screen nods his head comically, sending his long grey hair falling into his face, and he pushes it away quickly.

"Indeed Mr Holmes. I apologise that I could not be there to meet you in person. These confounded trains. It's terrible trying to get around at the moment!"

You stifle a laugh at the man's ridiculous accent, which was an exaggerated British one, rather than the broad Scottish you had been expecting, considering the man was from Edinburgh. 

"I believe you are in need of my assistance Professor." Sherlock replies, and you could tell from his expression that the detective was fighting the urge to roll his eyes. Obviously, this professor was not what he had been expecting either. 

"That I am Mr Holmes, you see ..." The man stops then, and turns to look over his shoulder, seemingly at some of the other passengers that were out of view of the camera. The train looked relatively empty, so it surprised you that the Professor was so nervous about speaking to you both. 

“Should I be taking notes?” You whisper to Sherlock, trying not to be overheard by your new bumbling client. Your companion shakes his head quickly. Clearly, he wasn’t expecting anything exciting to come from this meeting.

“Mr Holmes, last night I visited an aspiring student …” Mr Eccles begins quietly, still trying not to be overheard by any of the trains passengers. “It’s a relatively normal occurrence. People contact me from all over the country, wanting to meet and discuss academic matters. Anyway, this particular encounter was …” The man pauses then, before looking off past the camera with a far off expression. “Very strange.”

Sherlock frowns, and you can tell that this has grasped his interest. “Details.” Is all the man says in return, silently begging for his new client to continue.

Sensing that this was indeed going to be interesting, you quickly reach over and gather your notebook from the table, and make a few quick introductory notes. You client clears his throat, before beginning again.

“This fellow, a Mr Garcia, emailed me a week ago, offering me accommodation at his countryside Bed and Breakfast. He said I could stay for the weekend, for free, as long as I brought along some of my academic papers so we could have a discussion. He said he was a prospective PHD student of the University, and so wanted to meet me. Apparently, he was a fan of my work.”

“You just went to meet him, just like that?” You question incredulously, not managing to hide your negative opinion on the matter. "A stranger?" 

Sherlock remains silent at your outburst, but the Professor shifts in his seat, almost appearing to ‘puff up’ in a defensive gesture.

“Young lady, I have been a travelling researcher, Professor, scholar and historian for many years, and I can assure you -”

“What exactly is your field professor?” Sherlock interrupts, just as the man was beginning to glow a deep shade of crimson.

“I am an archaeologist of post WW11 England, Mr Holmes. I am also a keen cartographer. I study maps.” The professor adds, aiming a smug look in your direction as he does so, clearly believing that you wouldn’t know what that was. You manage not to make a sarcastic retort, even though he was right on that front. You hadn't known what a cartographer was. 

“And this Mr Garcia wanted you to discuss what exactly?”

“His home and business Mr Holmes. His house was very old, and he wanted to discuss it with me. I believe he had hoped to make some changes to the interior, but was denied due to it being a listed building. He asked that I tell him about the site, and help him understand more about it.”

Professor Eccles stops then, and you and Sherlock quickly exchange a look, wondering what on earth had captured the man’s attention so quickly. A young train conductor comes into view then, asking for the Professors ticket. He hands it over, mouthing a quick apology to Sherlock as he does so. When the train conductor moves on, your new client begins once again.

“Anyway, I arrived at the house yesterday morning, and my guest was … odd. He was nervous, and barely really spoke a word to me. He had a thick Spanish accent, that I recognised, and so did the other man at the house.”

“Who was this other man at the house?” Sherlock question, as you were quickly scribbling down notes. "Another prospective student?" 

“The butler I believe Mr Holmes. And that was another thing that was strange. Despite Mr Garcia claiming that he ran a successful B&B, the house was completely empty. There were no staff, and this ‘butler’ did everything. The cooking, cleaning, organising …”

“Fake business?” You whisper to Sherlock, but he doesn’t have time to form any sort of response before Mr Eccles speaks once again.

“The food was inedible, the house was freezing, and filthy Mr Holmes! Honestly, it was a wreck. It was like he hadn't been lived in for months!”

"Rings a bell ..." You mutter, looking around the freezing and slightly dark flat you were currently sat in. Sherlock sighs, but doesn't comment. 

“Address?” Sherlock asks simply, and the Professor quickly rattles it off. You note it down, but assume that Sherlock has safely stored it away in his mind palace.

“I was woken up around 1am when Mr Garcia came in my room to ask if I had called for him. I thought it was odd, said I didn’t, and he left. Well when I woke up this morning it was almost 10am. That was strange, as I specifically asked to be woken at least by 8:30am, as I had an early train. I went downstairs and …” The Professor raises his hands, only to quickly bring them down in a semblance of a shrug. "Gone." 

“Was anything missing?” You ask, and Sherlock caves his hands under his face, and leans back into his chair. You recognised his famous stance well enough, and new he was deep in thought about this new mystery. 

“No. Even the food we had from the night before was still on the table. It hadn’t been tidied away. The car was still in the driveway -”

“I’d like to take a look at this.” Sherlock says suddenly, shooting up from the table and darting around the room. 

“You’re, coming to Wisteria Lodge?” The Professor asks, trying desperately to follow Sherlock in the small radius his screen would allow. 

“I suggest you get off at the next stop Professor. You'll be heading in the opposite direction otherwise." Sherlock says, coming to a stop in front of the computer and handing you your coat "Me and my colleague will meet you in a few hours.”

“Very well Mr Holmes.” Mr Eccles replies with a smile, before the screen clicks off, and the man disappears from view. 

* * *

Within half an hour, Sherlock had bundled you both into a taxi, and you were headed off to Wisteria Lodge. It wasn’t far outside London, but with the trains and public transport being the way it was, the detective had insisted you take a taxi. You didn’t even want to think about how much this would cost. You spend the journey distracted by your thoughts of Bill, and the break in at the morgue. Sherlock hadn’t asked about it, and you couldn’t’ help but wonder how much he knew about it. He seemed to know everything after all.

Maybe he had heard something?

By the time you arrive at the small village next to Wisteria Lodge, it is almost 4:00pm, and you wonder internally if you were going to be able to get any sleep tonight. Sherlock had grabbed his coat and phone, and you had your coat and notebook, but that was it. You were sure John would have insisted on packing something a bit more substantial, or at least useful. But here you both were, an hour away from home, no one knowing you had left, without any luggage.

“This was probably a bad idea …” You muse quietly, as you watch Sherlock pay the driver.

Sherlock smiles slightly as the car pulls away, leaving you both to walk up the long driveway to the abandoned Lodge. “Problem?” He asks, and you note he sounds amused.

“Do you usually just, run off like that? Without any planning or anything?”

“Yep.” The detective places his hands in his trusted coat, and you shake your head, amused but still questioning.

“Why?”

“Why not?” The man replies simply, and you don’t have a smart response for that.

“You know, if we get in trouble, John is going to kill us.” You continue, pulling your own coat tighter around yourself. It was still Winter, and freezing cold.

“Don’t be ridiculous” Sherlock replies, as you round the corner and spot Wisteria Lodge. “John will kill _me_.”

A small plump figure was stood just outside the building, and you falter a moment, before recognising the man. Professor Eccles had somehow managed to arrive before you, and looked positively giddy at seeing Sherlock Holmes approach. 

It was almost as if he hadn't expected the detective to come. 

“Ah Mr Holmes, you’re here!” The man cries, quickly jogging over to you both.

“Good to see you, Professor Eccles?” Sherlock asks once again, nodding slightly in greeting and ignoring the man’s outstretched hand.

“Indeed I am Mr Holmes. Thank you for coming on such short notice. This is a real puzzle, and it's wonderful that you've taken the case!” The Professor gushes, but Sherlock was already scanning his eyes around the building, no doubt you think, looking for clues.

“Check the outside.” Sherlock says quickly, turning to you and nodding over to the small archway that indicated a garden was at the back of the house “Professor, if you wouldn’t mind showing me inside the house?”

“Of course.” Mr Eccles says with a smile, and you watch as the detective and the man stroll through the main entrance which to your surprise, was unlocked.

You slowly work your way around the outside of the building, taking the time to look for any footprints, or dropped items that could be of interest. The plants and grass were overgrown, making your usually simple task all the more difficult. Every now and then as you approached a window, you could hear Sherlock and Eccles talk inside, but you remained focused on your task. After going all the way around the house, you make your way back to the front door.

“Good day young lady.” A polite voice says, as you reach the front of the house.

A well suited man, as well as two police officers were stood at the front of Wisteria Lodge. The officers were sending you looks akin to suspicion, whereas the man who had addressed you sends you a genuine smile.

“Hi.” You reply awkwardly, trying to fight the urge to bolt off into the house.

“I’m wondering if you could help point us to the direction of one Professor John Eccles?” The man asks you politely.

“Eccles?” You question, “He’s inside with -”

Before you could finish your sentence, the two officers sweep into the Lodge, leaving you to stand perplexed and the older man appearing amused.

“Thank you.” He says simply, before following the two men into the house.

You stand frozen for a few seconds, bemused by the exchange, before you suddenly regain your senses, and dart inside the building.

Wisteria Lodge did indeed appear to be a huge, grand old house. But it was also dirty, freezing cold, and apparently, abandoned. You look towards the staircase, on which Sherlock was descending with a very nervous looking client. 

“It’s an honour to meet you Mr Holmes,” The older man who had been outside says joyfully, as Sherlock moves to stand in front of the gentleman and his two police officers. “I truly admire your work.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock replies, surprising you.

It was a rare occurrence when you and Sherlock actually met someone who was a sincere fan of the detective. Your friend had a habit of not caring either way, but he seemed to be genuinely thankful for the man’s compliment. Well that, or he could simply be trying to keep on the man’s good side, you argue. Especially considering he was flanked with police.

“I am Detective Baynes, Mr Holmes, and I take it that this is Mr Eccles.” The Detective continues, looking over at the cowering figure.

“I am …” The man murmurs, moving to stand alongside Holmes, instead of behind him.

“We require a statement Mr Eccles, pertaining to the murder of one Mr Garcia of Wisteria Lodge.”

At that your eyes quickly dart to Sherlock, and he meets your gaze quickly. The Detective carries on speaking, moving slowly towards your client whilst you and Sherlock silently communicate across the room.

This ... complicates things. 

“M – murdered?” The Professor mumbles, visibly shaken.

“Oh yes, he is dead. He was found in the early hours.” Detective Baynes replies simply, although not coldly. “As you were the last person to see Mr Garcia alive -”

The Detective cannot complete his sentence before Professor Eccles stumbles, and lands in a heap on the bottom of the staircase. If it wasn’t for Sherlock’s quick reaction in helping the man to the floor, you’re sure the man could have been seriously injured. The two police move forward and Sherlock moves backwards, allowing them to check the man. Your friend nods his head, and you follow him and Detective Baynes into the next room, away from the pale Professor and the two officers attending to him.

“How did you know where to find him?” Sherlock was asking the Detective as you reach the men, who are communicating quietly.

“The train station CCTV matched with a witness statement. The Professor came to Wisteria Lodge yesterday evening, and then left this morning, only to return with you Mr Holmes. An examination on the body of Mr Garcia showed that the man was murdered around midnight last night, meaning Professor Eccles -”

“Is a suspect?” You question, interrupting the conversation.

Detective Baynes looks over to you once again, but this time the man wears a quizzical expression.

“This is my colleague and assistant Detective.” Sherlock easily states, nodding over towards you “I’m sure you are aware I used to work with John Watson.”

“Oh yes, I’m very aware of that Mr Holmes.” Baynes responds with a wide grin “I was a tremendous fan of his blog. Still am in fact.”

“Clearly” Sherlock mumbles, and you smile.

“But may I ask why …”

“She has assisted me on many cases this past few months Detective. Her input is always graciously appreciated.”

You turn to gawk at Sherlock. That was the closest you had ever gotten to Sherlock giving you an outright compliment. He had almost said that he enjoys your company. Or did he? You shake your head slightly, managing to close your mouth and trying to get back into a somewhat professional state of mind. A man had just been murdered, this wasn’t the time for you to be thinking about your relationship with Sherlock Holmes. Relationship?

“This was found in the man’s pocket,” Detective Baynes’ voice pulls you out of your thoughts before you could become distracted once again. The man clears his throat, and begins to read loudly.

_“Our own colours, green and white._

_Green open, white shut._

_Main stair, first corridor, seventh right, green baize._

_Godspeed._

_D.”_

“D?” You question quietly to Sherlock, but the man wasn’t paying attention.

“And it was addressed to Mr Garcia, Wisteria Lodge.” The Detective continues, holding up the note and showing the front to Sherlock “No stamp or postcode.”

“So it was hand delivered.” You summarise, and Sherlock sends you a quick smile, telling you that you were correct.

“Indeed young lady.” Detective Baynes replies with a gleaming smile “Very well spotted. We do appear to have a second John Watson!”

"No one could replace John, Detective." You reply, with a smile.  

“In a woman’s hand I presume.” Sherlock interrupts, and the detective nods.

“Yes Mr Holmes. From first glace it would appear that the note was written by a woman. We'll have it sent away for analysis when we return to the station. Eccles was our main priority, you see.”

“Someone tried to warn him?” You say to Sherlock, but Detective Baynes doesn’t seem to realise your comment was a question.

“That would make sense, although it didn't appear to have worked ...” The man muses, folding the note and placing it back into his pocket.

“I trust you will have people examine the note carefully, looking for ink type.” Sherlock replies easily, and the Detective nods emphatically.

“Of course Mr Holmes, that is the way of these things.” Baynes smiles brightly, before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a paper bag. Picking out a sweet, he quickly pops it into his mouth, and then holds the bag out towards you and Sherlock.

“Then we shall be leaving.” Sherlock responds after a small measure of silence, just as you were nodding a ‘no thank you’ to the Detective offering you a sweet.

“What?” You question quietly to your friend, not understanding why he had suddenly decided no to stay and explore Wisteria Lodge further.

“Good day Detective.” Sherlock continues, shaking the mans hand once again, before sweeping from the room.

You quickly follow, but not before sending a quick smile to Detective Baynes, who was still offering you a sweet. This time you take one, and hear the cheery man chuckling as you leave the building to find Sherlock.

You pop the sweet in your mouth, and quickly suck the sticky residue off your fingers before you reach Sherlock.

“Where are we going? Are we just going to leave Professor Eccles with -”

“Detective Baynes will be taking him to the local police station. He will want a statement.” Sherlock explains, and you nod, mostly to yourself.

“Oh.”

You walk with Sherlock for a few minutes, heading back down the long driveway towards the man road. No doubt you were aiming to get to the local village, and look around there. It was times like this that you were immensely grateful for the coat that Mycroft had gifted to you. It was warm and comfortable, and you appreciated it keeping you safe and toasty warm in the freezing winter air.

You listen to Sherlock as you walk, hearing the man mumble under his breath. He often did this on cases, especially when he had just received a large amount of information. On hearing one particular phrase though, you can’t help but comment.

“The Spanish Embassy?” You question, and Sherlock looks startled for a moment at hearing your voice. You wondered if the man had forgotten you were there.

“Emailed in the taxi on the way here.” Sherlock mutters, pulling his coat firmly around himself as he spoke.

“You emailed the Spanish Embassy?”

“No one there had ever heard of Garica, or any one moving to the area.” Sherlock continues, ignoring your question.

Suddenly, you realise what Sherlock was getting at, and sigh. “So, he was an illegal immigrant then?”

“Yes.”

“An illegal immigrant who wound up dead. That's going to get complicated.”

“Baynes is looking for the murderer, but we need to do something else.”

You finally reach the man road, and follow Sherlock’s gaze down to the small group of buildings that were no doubt the local village. He nods his head in their direction, and you follow him quickly as he walks away once again.

“We need to do what?” You question as you almost skip to keep up with the long legged detective.

“Find out who Garcia was.”

* * *

“Garcia? Aye, knew of him. Never met him though. Now I mention it, I don’t know anyone who had met him. He moved into the Lodge three months ago, and never once came down to the village. He kept to himself.”

“Not once? In the entire three months?” You begin to scribble in your notebook, listening all the while to the owner of the local pub.

“Nope. Him and that man who worked for him never seemed to leave the place. Knew of them, people like to gossip, you know. Never saw them in person.”

“So, no one you know of spoke to him?” The man shakes his head “Saw him outside the Lodge?”

“Nope. Like I said, the man pretty much kept to himself.”

“Oh. Ok, thank you for your help.”

You climb dejectedly down from the bar stool, picking up your small glass of coke as you do. Looking around, you spot Sherlock sat in a quiet corner of the pub. The man was looking out the window and appearing even more exhausted than you felt.

“No luck.” You quietly say as you sit down opposite the detective. “He moved here three months ago, just him and his friend. Or butler, whoever the other guy was.” You add, placing your notebook down on the table.

Sherlock quickly picks it up, and immediately turns to your latest entries.  

“No one in the village has seen him outside the Lodge,” You continue as Sherlock reads “No one has spoken to him. They just thought he was one of those people who kept to himself -”

“Had.” Sherlock says quickly and quietly.

“Pardon?”

“It’s past tense. Garcia’s dead.”

You frown into your glass, before taking a large drink. Sherlock seemed out of sorts. Well, more so than usual.

“So, what do -”

“Wait.” Sherlock interrupts, and you notice that he was gazing out of the window behind you.

“What is it?” You ask immediately, turning to follow the Detectives distracted gaze.

You notice some police cars on the road outside the pub, and far more officers than you thought would be necessary for two cars. Suddenly, a huge man is pulled from one of the cars, and no less than six officers rush forward to detain him.

“Mr Garcia’s butler.” Sherlock answers your unspoken question, watching the scuffle with as much interest as you.

Before you can reply, Sherlock shoots up from his seat. He rushes over to the door, and you take one final drink before following. After all, you had no idea how long it would be before you stopped for a break again.

Outside, you spot a very smug looking Detective Baynes, and Sherlock was listening to the smiling man.

“… detained in the back garden of one of the neighbouring cottages Mr Holmes. It would appear that the man had been attempting to avoid the authorities as he was making his way to the Railway station a few hours North. He was heading into the countryside, but we found him.”

Sherlock doesn’t respond, merely nods his head. Surely he didn’t believe that the Butler was the murderer. That just didn’t make sense.

“Should you wish to question him -”

“Actually” Sherlock interrupts, “I would. Now if possible before your Constables get a hand on him. I'll have my contacts in London send the correct paperwork, of course. Wouldn't want any trouble for you or your Station.”

“Well certainly Mr Holmes.” Baynes says with a beaming smile, obviously thrilled to be working with the Detective. “This way, please.”

Baynes turns, and follows the Officers and the Butler to a small brick building was assume was the local Police station. Sherlock pulls out his phone, checks it quickly, before pocketing it.

“Stay here.” Sherlock says simply, before turning to follow Baynes. "Ask some more questions." 

“What? What do you mean stay here?”

Sherlock sighs, exasperated, but does at least stop his maddening walking pace. “The Butler is innocent, which means that the killer is still nearby.”

“You don’t think he would have gotten to the Railway?”

“No. If this man didn’t then he certainly didn’t.”

You frown, as Sherlock turns and begins to walk away. “How do you know that?” You call.

“Because innocent men can disappear easier than guilty ones.” Sherlock calls back, before disappearing into the station.

You turn, annoyed, and head back to the Pub.

Sherlock was right. The Police had found the Butler, who was innocent, but obviously had something to hide. Your guess was that he was also an illegal immigrant like his employer Garcia. If he couldn’t even make it to the Station, you doubted that a panicked man who had killed someone wouldn’t. Unless …

You stop just as you reach the pub, and turn to look over to the station. A trained killer? Someone who had been hired? They would have no problem blending into the local community. Well, that was great, you think, watching some dishevelled looking officers walk out of the station. The killer could be anyone.

You think where to start. The butler had been found in a local garden, which meant maybe the killer had the same idea. Hide locally.

The only places you could think of that a killer would be able to hide out, were Wisteria Lodge, and you knew that was impossible, or …

The huge manor house. The one next door to the Lodge.

Well, Sherlock had said stay put, but you were sure that you would be back in the Pub before he was finished interviewing the butler. You check your own phone, and seeing that it had plenty of battery, headed off to the huge house. Hopefully, you wouldn’t need to call back up.

* * *

The house truly was huge. It could easily hide someone who didn’t want to be found, and no one in the village could tell you anything about who lived here. Or more likely, from the gulping and pale expressions from the people you had spoken to, they knew  _exactly_ who lived here, and did not want to say anything.

You looked around the small garden at the back of the house, hearing some laughter. Suddenly, two little girls come running from an open door at the back of the huge house, and laugh and scream as they chase each other. You watch for a few seconds, confused.

Was that what everyone was so scared of about this house? Children?

You move, trying to silently make your way further around the house, hugging the tree line. You keep your eyes on the children, making sure they couldn’t see you.

Suddenly, a large rough hand claps you around your mouth and nose, and for a split second, you wonder if Sherlock had found you …

You quickly realise it wasn’t your friend, when the hand does not relent, despite your struggling. He was blocking your airways, and you were sure to faint soon …

The man drags you over to the house, the children diving around you and laughing as you continue to struggle. Just as you reach the open door, your eyes begin to cloud over, and you pass out.

* * *

You blink your eyes rapidly, trying to fight away the black spots that clouded your vision. As you come to, you realise that you have been tied up, quite securely.

A thick rope wrapped around your feet and legs, and another smaller and much tighter rope was around your hands and chest.

As you try and look around the room, you realise with some surprise that things were spinning, and the more you focused, the harder it was to see things without them warping.

You had been drugged …

“You made a grave mistake coming here, senorita.” A deep voice says from the side of the room.

You try and supress an eye roll. The villain lurking in the dark corner; so bloody cliché.

Squinting, you make out a tall male figure. “I was just …”

“I know that you are working with the Police.” The man interrupts, playing with a cigar in his hands as he sinks down into the chair opposite you. “No doubt, you are searching for the man who murdered Garcia.”

You frown, before trying to keep your face expressionless.  _Don’t let them see your reactions …_

“I’m guessing you don’t know anything about that …” You reply easily. As the man laughs, you pull slightly on the rope binding your hands. Shit, it was tight.

“Of course not! I know nothing of Garcia …” Your captor responds with a flippant wave of his hand, before turning his attention back to his cigar.

You smile then, unable to contain yourself. Gotcha …

“How do you know he’s dead?” You ask easily, and the man shrugs.

“I heard.” He replies, placing the cigar in his mouth.

“From who?”

The man lights the cigar, and takes a long drag, before laughing at your determined expression, and shakes his head, almost in amusement.

“Brave. You are a brave girl senorita.” The man says, waving his cigar at you almost like a pointed figure.

You shrug as best you can, considering the tight bindings. “Some say brave, most would disagree with that.”

“And what pray tell, would ‘most’ call you?” The man asks, leaning forward in his chair.

“Stupid.”

Suddenly, a tall man sweeps into the room, appearing out of breath and dishevelled. Your captor turns to glare at him, and hisses something in rapid fire Spanish. Or at least, you thought it was Spanish. The man sheepishly responds, before leaving, locking the door behind him with a deafening click.

The captor turns back to you, and begins to twirl the cigar around in his hands, gazing at it …

“You broke into my house …” The man muses, and you can’t help but gulp at his tone. Clearly, this wasn’t the first time he had been faced with a captive.

“I was nowhere near your house.” You snap back, worried for a moment that the drugs were effecting more than just your vision.

“You were stalking my children.”

You struggle slightly, trying to stop your vision from clouding over. “They dived on me. That’s hardly stalking …”

“You should be careful of how you speak, senorita.” The man growls, before finally taking another drag of his cigar.

“You’ve tied me to a fucking chair. I’ll speak to you how I want.”

The man eyes widen, before his face splits into a grin, and it makes your skin crawl. “Do you not know who you speak to?” The man asks, in somewhat broken English.

“Should I?” You reply sarcastically, still moving your bounds slightly. What did Sherlock say about rope again …?

“My name is Don Murillo”

You turn back to the man, raising an eyebrow. He looked like he was expecting a response, and so you nod. “Ok …”

“You truly do not have any idea of what you have walked into.” The man, Don Murillo laughs, before standing.

You smile, your head lolling of its own accord as the drugs begin to reach full effect. “Enlighten me …”

Don Murillo smiles viciously, before slowly moving forward, and gently placing the burning cigar against your shaking skin. 

* * *

Sherlock can’t keep the satisfied grin from his face as he all but strides out of the Police Station. The butler had told him  _everything._ Who had killed Garcia, why …

Garcia had been a friend of a powerful man, but when things changed, and he was required to murder, he left. He ran, and both men came to England to escape. That hadn’t ended well for Garcia, and the butler had to tried to leave, scared that he would be next.

Now all that was needed was to find Don Murillo, and arrest him for the murder of Garcia, and about 10’000 other people …

He was a very powerful, but very dangerous man. Sherlock had been worried that he would need to call Mycroft, but had decided against it. The last thing he needed was his big brother lording his political prowess.

Walking into the pub, Sherlock immediately finds something odd. You weren’t there.

He grabs the nearest person to him at that moment, and asks if he had seen you.

“She was askin’ ‘bout that big house. Think’s -”

Sherlock doesn’t let the man finish before he runs out of the building, calling for the nearby police and Baynes to follow him. He  _knew_ there was something about that house, and obviously, you had had the same instinct. Now, he could only hope that you had both been horribly wrong. Don Murillo had murdered an old friend for leaving him. Sherlock dreaded to think what he would do to someone snooping around his hideaway …

* * *

You blink as your vision begins to clear, and immediately recoil when you realise that someone was crouched next to your chair. You try and listen closely to what they were saying, but can only make out garbles and nonsense …

Sherlock pulls out a pocket knife, and shakes his head in exasperation.

“When I say stay put,  _stay put.”_ Sherlock hisses as he cuts the ropes, freeing your arms and torso.

You smile, still wrapped in a drug fuelled haze.

You idly wonder how long you had been unconscious. “He left …”

“To the train station, I know. The police are already there.” Sherlock interrupts, moving to cut your shaking legs from the much thicker rope.

You smile again, swaying slightly as Sherlock sits up to face you. “How …”

“The butler told us everything.” Baynes says from somewhere in the room.

You really must be out of it, you hadn’t even known the man was there.

“Can you stand?” Sherlock asks, resting a hand on your shoulder. Even in your drugged mind, you are surprised by the gesture. It was almost … gentle, which was not a word you thought you’d ever associate with the detective.

“I’ll call an ambulance …” Bayne mutters, obviously worried that you had just been swaying and smiling, and not responding to your friend.

“No need, we’re going home.”

Before you can respond, Sherlock gently places a hand under your legs and around your shoulders, and easily lifts you. He walks out of the room quickly, pointedly not looking at the cigar stubs littering the floor, and the blood staining your arms and legs.

There were hundreds of officers outside when you and Sherlock emerge from the huge manor house. It surprises you, and so you turn to look up at your friend.

“I thought you said they were going to the train station …”

“They’re gathering evidence.” Sherlock responds quickly, shifting your weight slightly as he walks over to a waiting police car.

“Did they catch him?” You slur, as Sherlock lowers you to the floor, allowing you to slide in the car.

“Yes.” Sherlock responds, and you catch his smile as he moves to sit next you to.

“Good.” Is all you manage to say, before you close your eyes, and fall asleep once again.

Two hours later, Baynes had allowed you and Sherlock to leave and catch a train back to London. He had been confused, but no less excited when Sherlock had told him that he didn’t want his name anywhere on the case notes. The world would believe Baynes solved the case, and the Detective was thrilled with that.

You shift around in your train chair, wincing as you brush up against a recent burn. Sherlock had assured you he would be taking a look when you got home, and you hoped by ‘take a look’ he hadn’t meant, poke and study.

“When did you know?” You murmur, barely awake.

“The note.”

“The note they found in Garcia’s pocket?” You question, watching as Sherlock flicks through his notebook in the chair opposite you.

“Yes.”

“You knew what it meant?”

“Not straight away, but I recognised the flag.”

You frown then, shitting up a little straighter. “Flag?”

“ _Our own colours, Green and White_.”  Sherlock recites, and he sounds exhausted, like he has had to explain this before. You didn’t doubt that he probably had. “San Pedro’s national flag.”

“That … that was hours ago. Why didn’t you say anything?”

Sherlock sighs. “I needed more data. Besides, I knew Detective Baynes would get there eventually.”

You smile slightly, hearing the hidden compliment in Sherlock’s words. “You like him”

“He is a credit to his profession. He will go far I’m sure. And I don’t say that often.”

“What about the rest of the note?”

“It wasn’t a warning, it was a trap.”

You sigh, suddenly understanding. “D, was for Don Murlillo.”

Sherlock nods, before pocketing his notebook. “Garcia panicked, and tried to run. Murillo knew then he had the right man, so murdered him.”

“Why?”

Sherlock shrugs “Don Murillo is also known as The Tiger. He has leagues of henchmen, assassins, drug cartels …”

“So you think Garcia used to work for him or something?”

“Most likely. He doesn’t seem to be the type to forgive and forget.”

You shake your head, amused that your once simple case had turned out like this. “All of this because of Professor  Eccles …”

“He seems to have a knack of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

You raise an eyebrow, amused. “I thought you would have said ‘right place, right time’. After all, he helped catch a murderer …”

“True.” Sherlock replies quickly, before looking over to you, and smiling.

You laugh, before suddenly becoming woozy.

“You’re still under the effects of the drugs.”

“No shit, Sherlock …” You murmur, before closing your eyes and resting your head up against the train window.

Just as you begin to drift off, you hear Sherlock softly speak your name. You turn, or more like, roll your head in the man’s direction.

“Hmm …” You murmur in response, trying to fight sleep. 

Sherlock pauses for a moment, and actually appears to gulp, before turning to look out his window.

“Don’t do that again.”

Your eyes widen for a moment, and you were glad that Sherlock wasn’t facing in your direction. Was this … was he worried? “Promise.” You respond sincerely, all humour forgotten for a moment.

“Good.”

You watch the man for a moment, unable to keep the smile from your face. Sherlock was almost pouting, and burning a hole in the window with his unblinking expression.

“Go back to sleep …” Sherlock nearly hisses, and you laugh quickly, before closing your eyes.

“I’m sleeping, I’m sleeping …”

* * *

“Wiggins?” You call out, and hear an almighty sigh just as the man’s face comes into view.

“Well about bloody time, I was worried about yah …”

“Do you recognise this?”

You hold up the plectrum directly in front of the man’s face, not taking even a second to explain why you had been so late. The client had been interesting, but you hadn’t really been paying attention.

The small item had felt heavy in your pocket, and at the first chance you had got, you had raced to meet with Wiggins once again, only a quick text saying ‘meet me’ in explanation.

“Should I?” The man asks, and you sigh, defeated. 

“Never mind.”

You knew all of your friends had known that Bill was a music teacher, but didn’t know for certain who had known about his lucky plectrum.

None of your group had taken it from his possessions, most saying when you had questioned them that hadn’t even seen if before. Wiggins was the last person to ask, and he too didn’t recognise it. You were back to square one, and were exhausted.

You sink down onto the wet floor, not even stopping to pull your coat out of the way.  

“Hey, what’s going on?” Wiggins asks kindly, moving to sit next to you. “You know, we are here to help.”

“Yeah. You’re here to help Sherlock.” You reply somewhat bitterly, but Wiggins is already shaking his head.

“No, not just Sherlock.”

You sigh, and turn to your companion with a determined expression.

“I need you to find out who broke into St Bart’s last night.”

“Got it.” The man replies simply, pulling out his phone. “What about the police?”

“They’re not investigating, because nothing was technically stolen. But this could be about fraud, or forgery …” You muse.  

Wiggins nods, before he begins to type ‘Try the café’s down town and see if anyone’s selling any information about any dead person’ into his phone.

“What kind of information do ya think it’ll be?”

“Height, weight … just random information. But it has to be from someone who has recently died. All of the records in that room are only kept there for six months maximum”

“Why the hell would people want that?” Wiggins asks, although he doesn’t look up from his rapid typing.

“A new life.” You reply simply, and your companion nods in understanding “A deceased person’s identity is pretty easy to assume. They don’t tend to argue with you …”

“So, you recon someone’s got info from Bart’s.”

“Yeah, and I need to find out who got it.”

“What if it was summat else?” Wiggins asks, but you are already shaking your head.

“It wasn’t. The only room they were interested in was the room where they stored all the documents. No files are actually missing though, so that means someone read it, or took a picture of it, then got the hell out of there.”

“Alright. Gimme an hour or so, we should have some more info.”

“Thanks Wiggins.”

True to his word, the man reappears exactly an hour and a half later. You had remained in the same spot, and are almost startled when Wiggins suddenly comes into view.

“Well?”

“Sorry, the only thing I could find was this …” Wiggins holds up his phone, showing you a small grainy picture.

“That’s one of the files.” You realise, and your heart begins to beat faster. You were on to something “Where was it?”

“It was on Facebook, of all places. Meredith hooked it up in an internet café.”

“Ok.” You nod to yourself, trying to keep yourself relatively calm. Sherlock never lost his cool, and neither could you. “Whose it for?”

“Just some young kid that overdosed a week ago. It’s not a new file or anything.” Wiggins says, before reading the name “Matt Bolton.”

“Okay … okay …” You get up from the ground and begin to pace, nodding to yourself as you think everything through. “So these people broke into Bart’s last night, took a picture of a file, put it on the internet,” Wiggins nods, telling you that you were right, and so you continue “But they drop something,” You reach into your pocket and pull out the plectrum.  

“Why don’t we tell Sherlock about this?” Wiggins asks, and you shake your head once again.

“No, he’s got enough to worry about.” You reply simply, frowning as you try to answer Wiggins and keep thinking. “This is my case.”

“Fair enough.” The man replies, flicking through his phone once again. No doubt he had just gotten a message from someone else in The Network.

“We need to find these guys. Find them, and I think we can find who killed Bill.”

“What if it’s the same guys?” Wiggins asks with a frown.

“I’m counting on it.” You reply honestly, before your phone buzzes in your coat pocket. You ignore it, and continue to pace.

“So lemme get this straight … They break into somewhere to take a picture of a file,” You nod in answer, and Wiggins scoffs. “Why not just take the file?”

“Because we’d know what they took.” When Wiggins looks confused, you sigh, and suddenly realise this is what it must be like to be Sherlock. “If there was one file missing, it would be really obvious what they wanted and what they took. But nothing was missing, so the police wouldn’t be able to get involved, and we’d have no idea what they were looking for.”

“Got’cha.” Wiggins replies, pocketing his phone and moving to stand. “But then why put it on the internet?”

“Who knows, but that’s not the point. These people, they must be hired by someone …”

“What makes you say that?”

“It’s too random otherwise, killing a homeless man and then the file?” You shake your head, and your phone buzzes once again. “No these must be connected, but we have to figure out how …”

“You think these guys killed Bill.”

You hold up the plectrum, waving it in the man’s face. “Why would they have this otherwise Wiggins? And why wouldn’t they have taken all the money?”

“Good point sunshine.”

Suddenly your phone buzzes once again, and sensing that it wasn’t going to stop anytime soon, you reluctantly pull it out.

“It’s Sherlock.”

“You better get back. I’ll keep an eye out on this …” Wiggins replies, holding up his phone in signal that he was going to keep investigating.

You stop the man as he starts to walk away, turning him to face you. “Just us Wiggins, please keep this between us.”

“Alright …”

“Tell everyone they’re investigating for Sherlock, but not what. And don’t mention this …” You hold up the plectrum once again, and Wiggins nods. “Thanks. I’ll be in touch.”

You walk away, reading your messages from Sherlock as you do.

_New client arrived. SH_

_Come make tea. Client is waiting. SH_

_Where are you? SH_

“Tell Sherlock I said hi!” Wiggins calls to you, and you raise a hand in a signal you heard him, before typing a quick reply to Sherlock, and heading back to Baker Street.


End file.
